


Blue Suits You

by AdelineAround



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anal Sex, Bottom Connor, Connor Deserves Happiness, End of Life Scenarios, Falling In Love, Gentle Sex, Historical Inaccuracy, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), I cried while writing this, Immortal Connor, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Parenthood, Reincarnated Hank, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Time Skips, Top Hank, connor is a good bean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-17 17:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15466734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelineAround/pseuds/AdelineAround
Summary: Connor cannot remember the day he was born, where he is from, or why he is here. What he does remember are all the times he met Hank.Again, and again. And again; death will never do them apart.





	Blue Suits You

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a fun drinking game: take a shot (of whatever you have) whenever Hank dies.  
> Alternatively: timelines in this story are random and dispersed.  
> I really like to torture myself with angst and feels, so I apologize in advance if you cry.

A human lifespan is only so long, if one really thinks about it. Within one hundred years or less, they will have been raised from an infant and into an adult. They will fail some, succeed in other places, and join a surrounding community to which they call their own. They will make a career for themselves and conquer the world. Alternatively, they will settle down and have a family; upbring children from their very seed and egg. They will improve their way of communication, always excelling in critical thinking, when not in emotional intelligence. They will learn the importance of self love and care, then learn to care for others. Some will live stable with a beloved. Others stay alone.

But no one talks about the end of life.

No one is comfortable saying goodbye to their loved ones.

Nobody is overjoyed to shed that tear of mourning and grief.

Connor is different. He has shed too many tears in the last odd-hundred years of his lifetime, and he is relieved to shed more.

Samsara: the endless cycle of rebirth into the material world. “Wandering souls”. Reincarnation.

Connor can only experience the feeling of rebirth second-handedly, as he is not able to perish like a normal human being. He would laugh at his younger self if he could, for the past Connor had cried every night after his loved one’s death.

It happened so long ago that Connor can no longer remember his real name. For that reason, Connor had called him Hank, strong and broad when he flexed his muscles, and everything that Connor could ask for. It made the want coil in his stomach for Hank, and that is how his lover received the nickname.

Connor’s lover was his everything. He was a handsome man who pointed out things for what they were. He would spend his days working hard, playing hard after. He would love Connor with such fiery passion that Connor thought he would surely fry to a crisp. He was a good man, caring for the children they took in off the streets. He would never stop giving his two-hundred percent.

That all came to an end when Connor’s beloved joined an expedition north. He returned to Connor in a box, shards of bone and jewelry amongst the torn cloth that once graced his very body.

Connor had fallen to his knees.

He wailed into the night, like a banshee, but the story did not end there. Epidemic took everything he owned, everyone he loved; all that he worked so hard to obtain. The children they raised were now eternally at rest, unable to wake from their slumber. All of the love Connor and Hank had devoted to them, gone.

Connor became angry. Why was _he_ the only one who could not fulfill his end of life? Why did everyone else get to die around him? Why did his Creator put him on this sick, sick earth? There was no purpose in living like this, while everyone perished. It was unfair. It was agonizing.

However, the pain and sorrow began to fade until Connor was left in solitude. He was the last one standing in the godforsaken town he once called home. There was no one but him.

He had two options. One, to stay there and pray that he rot away. Or he could find a new town, make a new chapter in his life; start over again with a clean slate and hope that he would meet Hank in Heaven someday.

Connor chose the latter.

That is how he met a beautiful, rugged man who was also called Hank.

This man, Hank, does not seem to notice Connor’s presence when he enters the inn that Connor currently resides in. He walks straight to the counter, where Connor is rubbing his fingerprints off a beer stein that has seen better days. He eyes the mug, and asks for a drink in an accented voice.

When Hank is done with his drink, he asks for a meal. Connor is quick to comply, bustling to bring out a hot meal from the kitchen. Hank thanks him by eating heartily. They strike up a conversation about Hank’s origins, revealing that the name “Hank” is just something people call him, while his given name is too difficult to pronounce for non-natives. Sometime during their talk, Hank calls Connor a gentleman.

Connor falls in love with him that night.

Hank becomes a regular patron at the inn, always meeting with Connor in secret after the evening shift is over.

They sneak to Connor’s room, embracing, indulging in each other’s bodies until the early hours of the morning. He brings Connor gifts when he visits, always something a beautiful, rich blue color. It fits him, Hank reasons. First, it’s a brooch. Then, a charm. Another time, it is a necklace. The gift they both love the most is the blue ring, shined and cut from stone. Connor wears it on his ring finger every day. 

Connor thinks there is nothing better than this life. He loves Hank so very much. But, like all things, Connor is quick to find out, happiness comes to an end.

Government officials drag them out on a sunny day into the courtyard, aiming their muskets when Connor begs them to let Hank go.

They accuse Hank for treason, and lynch him that afternoon.

They attempt to burn Connor at the stake, but Connor is able to escape when the rope has burned through and the majority of spectators have gone.

With fear and grief heavy in his heart, he lies on the forest floor, crying until he cannot anymore. He is alone again, his lover killed before his eyes. He wants to die, and flings himself into the rushing river that runs through brush.

Finally, he thinks, it will all be over.

Except, it does not. Connor’s lungs burn from the lack of oxygen, skin pruny from osmosis, cuts and abrasions from the gravel scraping at his body as he is carried by the water’s current.

He reemerges a naked, distraught man who owns nothing but his name, Connor.

There are no wounds from the river, no burn marks from the fire that burned him alive. He is as he was when Hank was still breathing.

Now, in new territory, where no person knows his identity, he is free to start over again; find a new life to live. He supposes he must, frightened he actually might die if he tries to drown himself again.

It takes him years to find another place to work. He lives in a small building with many others, so crowded that they must share beds. If one shifts in bed, the other three must also do the same, as to fit on the mattress. To Connor, it reminds him of a sardine can, with each person as slim as fish, too. The walls are so thin, he can hear his neighbors scream whenever they find another rat chewing on their belongings.

The food is less than mediocre, but somehow he survives on water, bread and sour pickles. Unlike his roommates, he does not look as skin-and-bones as most of them do on this poor diet. Connor does not complain.

He scrapes by making artillery in the factories downstairs. It is a much more grueling job than the one he had back at the inn, but he manages to suffice. His fingers become deft, able to assemble equipment with the finest of instruments.

This is how he meets the man of his dreams.

He looks _just_ like Hank. His name _sounds_ like Hank’s. He even acts like Hank.

They meet after their duties in the factory, conversing mainly about the uprising war. Connor finds that this man has a son, just barely over a year old. His wife passed during childbirth. He leaves the child with his sister while he is at work.

This man is in his mid-twenties, with a son and a sister, so unlike Connor’s previous Hank. Still, Connor is hopelessly in love with him.

The confession is awkward, as it is when they have arranged to move into the same room with each other. With his and Connor’s combined income, they are able to move into a tiny, water-closet sized flat. This new Hank admits he has always felt a deep connection with Connor, as if they have known each other for years, when they had only just met a few months ago. Connor cannot agree more.

They take opposite shifts at the factory, as to have one person care for the baby at all times. They share mealtimes if both of them are not working. His lover leaves him notes in blue ink, each time thanking Connor for how beautiful his life has become. He says that the blue ink helps him convey his feelings better, as it reminds him of Connor. They are so busy with their life that they do not see each other often but, when they do, the two are quick to make up for any time lost.

It is an imperfectly perfect life, and Connor would not have it any other way.

It is when Connor is packing trays of bullets; the sirens go off, alerting everyone that they must find shelter immediately. Connor hides in the basement, waiting with twenty-something other coworkers.

Bombs drop soon after, obliterating all that is in their path.

When Connor digs his way out of the rubble, he comes to a world of ash. All that he has invested in, all that he has loved, is whisked away.

Again.

He is the last one standing.

Connor’s tears leave trails in the soot that powders his face, dripping onto crumbling concrete beneath him.

Not one, but two of his loves are dead. He could not save them from the atrocity called war. He could not spare them from the cold hands of death. He wishes to join them, but he knows he cannot. As he has found out before, his Creator would not allow it, does not allow it, for he seems cursed to walk this earth for all eternity while humanity perishes around him.  
There is nothing he can do about the frustration building up inside him, for he is ruthlessly angry at himself more than at the world. He curses his God’s name, swearing that he will not let this happen again.

So, with the knowledge that he cannot die, Connor picks himself up, dusts himself off, and hobbles aimlessly to his next destination.

* * *

If there is anything strange about Connor’s incapability to expire, it is that he can _see_ those being born.

It is in the autumn month of September when a baby boy is born, taking on the name of Hank Gleason. He is a healthy, chunky infant that suckles strongly at his mother’s breast. Connor is working his rounds at the hospital when he delivers Hank Gleason to the world.

It was a long, difficult birth, as Hank is the first child his mother has ever reared. Connor is overjoyed when they declare the baby boy will be given the name Hank.

“It is a strong name for an equally hearty male,” Connor praises Hank’s parents on their name choice. It makes his heart flutter a bit when the couple smiles in response, diverting their attention on their newborn son.

Connor strikes up a conversation about baby upbringing, and earn the right to visit the Gleasons every month. He grows close to Hank’s parents, becoming a family friend.

When Hank is old enough to talk, they give Connor the title of Hank’s “uncle”.

Hank grows up to be the golden child of his family. His cousins are nowhere compared to him. He is, by far, Connor’s favorite “nephew”. School comes easily to him, as well as sports. Arts do not suit him so, but that is just fine by the Gleasons.

It is in Hank’s third year of secondary school when _he_ approaches Connor.

“I like you.”

Connor did not know that three words could throw him such a curveball until now. Hank is still in his teenage years, younger than any other time Connor has met him. Connor could get into trouble if he succumbs to his desires. He weighs his options carefully, then makes his decision.

Connor makes Hank Gleason cry that day.

He does not mean to break the poor boy’s heart, but Connor must choose his battles wisely. He wraps his arms around Hank, shushing him until the sobs turn to hiccups. Hank says that he does not care what others think, that he wants Connor no matter the cost. Connor’s heart palpitates, but he must not give into his carnal lust, even with Hank’s consent.

He tells Hank that he cannot be with him. Not yet, he does not say.

Connor _wishes_ he said it; he could have given Hank some hope.

The next morning, Hank is gone from his home, nowhere to be seen. His parents panic, as most parents would. Connor calls for a search party. He tells the Gleasons about Hank’s confession; they are less than pleased to find out. Perhaps, he should not have told Hank’s parents, but he feels wrong for wanting their teenage son. He is supposed to play the role of an uncle, not a lover in this life. He should be fine with just this privilege. It is better for it to be like this than to get invested in Hank again, and risk losing him to Creator-knows-what in the near future.

He has cried enough for Hank, he thinks at the time.

Hank comes home a week later, to everyone’s relief. Connor is glad the boy’s life did not end here.

Unfortunately, Connor’s time playing as uncle did.

Hank’s parents call him, saying that it is better if Connor stay away from Hank from now on. Sadness drenches his heart; he will not be allowed to see Hank until his parents are said and gone, if Hank will ever want to see him again.

Connor throws himself into his work, despair taking over his capability to enjoy anything fully. His thoughts are stuck on Hank, unable to move forward. He forgets to eat most days, and sleeps even less. Even the director of the hospital puts him on vacation, for Connor spends too much of his time diagnosing one patient after the other without pause.

You will run thin at this rate; the director’s words do nothing to bring realization or clarity to Connor’s mind.

It is not for another fifteen years until Connor receives a letter from Hank Gleason.

Hank’s parents are dead. Connor has since been desensitized to others’ passings.

More importantly, Hank would like to see him again.

Connor puts everything on pause for the boy- no, he’s grown-the man named Hank. He scribbles out a response on a sheet of yellowing paper, sending it off to the post shortly after he has read Hank’s request. He is ecstatic, eager to meet with Hank and take him into his arms. Maybe they can finally be together. Maybe Connor can find a happy end with his lover.

They meet one another at an eatery on the other side of town. The place is rundown and shabby, wallpaper peeling to the floor. Hank nor Connor seem to care, though. They are too busy looking into each other’s eyes, hands entwined with unspoken love flowing between their palms. Connor has never felt happier. Hank is absolutely stunning, even more beautiful the first day he met the man.

After hours of talking, Hank finally invites Connor to his place, telling him that he is more than welcome to stay as long as he would like.

“You mean, forever?” Connor jokes, but only slightly.

Hank smiles at him, hanging their coats at the door before ushering them both into the bedroom.

They make love that night, lights on so Connor can drink in the gorgeous sight of his lover. Gasps and moans fill the air around them, emphasizing each slap of skin on skin. It is so perfect, Connor cannot think of any other place to be. He kisses Hank with a fierce passion, the passion he has always had for the man.

The next years are bliss, with Connor moving in with Hank. They live together in harmony, nights being their own private time of ecstasy. Their life is beautifully rich with admiration and love for each other. Nothing else matters in this shared time that they have together, not even when Hank’s relatives begin to question his absence at the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner tables.

Hank and Connor Gleason make their own family, with Hank bringing home a stray puppy. Connor could not be more delighted. They treat the canine like their child, doting on it every hour they are not busy loving each other.

They decorate their home in blue. It is a brilliant blue this time, like Hank’s pretty eyes. Connor says he likes the color.

“It fits you,” he says. Connor cannot agree more.

However, because of Connor’s condition, Hank begins to question his mortality.

The question comes in early April many years later, when their dog is resting peacefully six feet under in the woods and Hank’s skin is beginning to really crepe, his hair already turned a snowy white.

“You still look like the day I first met you,” Hank says, thumb stroking over Connor’s knuckles when they are resting in bed. It is sprinkling outside, and Connor anticipates the May flowers it will soon bring. “I’ve never known someone who doesn’t age like you, Connor.”

As much as Connor would like to play Hank’s words off as a compliment, he knows Hank seeks the truth. He waits for his lover to finish his sentence.

“Why?” is all that Hank asks.

Connor raises his eyebrows. “Why, what? Are you asking me why I don’t age?”

Hank throws him a devilish grin, but he looks tired. “You know exactly what I am asking. There’s always been something about you, like I have known you my entire life… which, I guess, is technically correct.”

“It is,” Connor says, but Hank dismisses it.

“No, there’s more than that. I know it,” He waves his hand in the air then, as if the gesture would help Connor understand better. “Why am I the only one getting old, Connor? Soon, I’ll be gone and you’ll be all alone again.”

“Again?” Connor asks.

Hank looks him in the eye, but the gaze is hard. Connor knows what he is getting at.

“This isn’t your first time, that much I can gather. You always look at me when you think I’m not looking, and you give the saddest expression I have ever seen grace your face,” he describes his observation. “You aren’t a normal human, are you? You’ve _seen me die before_ ,”

Connor sighs. His chest aches so much from this. Brushing back Hank’s long, overgrown hair, he says, “What if I were to say you are correct? Then what would you do? Would you abandon me like your parents wanted you to do?”

Suddenly, Hank smacks Connor’s hand away, glaring daggers at him. “You’re the one who abandoned _me_ , Connor. You told me that you couldn’t have me,”

“And I was wrong,” Connor has the heart to say. He never wanted to leave Hank in the first place, but it is not his right to tell Hank that his parents alienated Connor for the betterment of their son.

Perhaps he already knows, because Hank’s gaze softens a bit. “You were. You’re stuck with me now, and I will never let you go.”

They stare out of the bedroom window a little more before Connor leans in to kiss Hank. It is a quick peck, but still full love adoration nonetheless.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.” He decides to tell his lover about his past lives some other time.

Hank closes his eyes and smiles. Connor does not need to hear him to know that Hank Gleason loves him, too.

* * *

Connor cries at the foot of their bed the day Hank’s soul leaves his body. At least, it was a peaceful death. He passed while in his sleep, head cushioned comfortably on plush, feather-filled pillows that Connor bought as a present last year. Hank was eighty-two when he finally left earth, a decent time to live; Connor keeps telling himself. He had a very productive life. Connor should be happy for him.

All Connor feels now is sorrow. He never wants to live to see another day again, but his Creator has cursed him with the gift of immortality. There is nothing that can take him out of his misery.

Why, he thinks, is it only him that experiences this unbearable pain? Connor does not know of any other being on the planet who lives like him. His Creator has made him unique, lonely when his beloved is long gone.

He hates it.

He hates being alive, when Hank is not.

Connor makes the funeral arrangements with careful thought. Every detail must be perfect. After all, he was never able to give Hank a proper ceremony in the past. He should be happy to honor his lover’s death, remember him until he is reborn and finds his way back to Connor. Instead, Connor feels remorse, even more so than when Hank was hanged in front of him while Connor burned on the pyre.

The funeral service is small in the church, with only Hank’s relatives’ children present beside Connor. Everyone else is dead. Everyone else has returned to dust, except for Connor.

A few of Hank’s relatives’ children cannot help but drill holes into Connor’s body with their eyes. They are curious; what relationship does this seemingly young man have with Hank Gleason, they wonder.

When the ceremony is over, with Hank’s coffin secure under his tombstone, Connor thanks the Gleasons’ extended family for attending before he heads back home. He believes he has put on an impeccable poker face for them.

The first thing he does is knock over a lamp, allowing it to crash on the floor, the expensive porcelain shattering into a thousand pieces. It represents something of his own heart, Connor deduces. He then marches to the bedroom, rips open a pillowcase in rage, and watches as the down feathers float to the ground, littering it with their soft eggshell color.

Settling into his mess, Connor belts out an agonizing scream, twisting the trashed pillow in his fingers. He wishes it didn’t have to end like this, that Hank had to die to live on in a new body. He hates that he cannot die. He hates that his Creator cursed him this way. He hates, hates, hates.

Connor does not know how much more he can take before he implodes.

Perhaps, sleeping off his frustration will help clear his conscience, he thinks. It will stop him from destroying the whole house. It will cease his self-destruction.

He is disgraceful.

Wiping his face with a hand, he climbs into bed and sleeps for the first time since Hank Gleason died.

* * *

_Connor wakes with a watery gasp._

_This is not his home, he thinks, for the surrounding world around him is too blue and wet to be his. He spins around, confused, but is only faced with more blue._

_It is blue, blue, blue everywhere. He does not know what to think of this place. Connor cannot find a chair to sit on, let alone a place to go. He stands awkwardly in this strange world of cerulean… Cerulean blue, just like Hank’s eyes._

_Oh, Hank. Connor sinks down to his knees. He loves him to the point of heartbreak._

_“Then heartbreak you shall have,”_

_Whipping around, Connor faces a woman amongst the blue._

_Her hair is piled neatly, high on her head like a crown. Her skin is deep and beautiful. She looks so familiar, yet Connor does not recall a time he has met this woman._

_“I am Amanda Stern,” she says without prompt. “You must have questions, Connor.”_

_“I do,” he says, but his mouth does not move. Is this… is he talking without his voice? This world certainly is strange. “Why must I suffer each time? Why can’t this all come to an end? I don’t understand.”_

_Amanda floats closer to him, serene yet fascinating._

_“You must ask your Creator, Connor,” is her answer. “Perhaps, He will give you the answers you are looking for.”_

_“And just who is my Creator, Amanda?” Connor presses, hands balled into fists. He feels the anger rising within him; the moment he gets hold of his Creator, there is no doubt Connor will give Him a piece of his mind. He is not afraid of this God._

_All Amanda does is smile at him._

_“Come, let me show you.”_

* * *

He meets Hank again when he moves to Detroit, Michigan with a new identity. There are plenty of thirty-something year old men named Connor around the area; he will not be in imminent danger if government officials try to track him down. Meaning, he will still have enough time to get the hell out of dodge before he gets caught.

That being said, he finds Hank working at the Detroit City Police Department.

“What makes you come to Detroit?” Jeffrey Fowler interviews Connor in cold November.

“I felt as if there was something calling me here,” Connor is not lying. He glances at the bustling foot traffic outside of Fowler’s office. Hank sits at his desk, nose deep in work.

Fowler looks over Connor’s resume and cover letter again, but it seems as though he has already made his decision. Connor has lived long enough to read people semi-accurately.

“Your qualifications look good, Mr. Stern,” Connor has chosen to change his last name this time, for security purposes. “You may start after your screenings go through.”

Connor starts work immediately thereafter.

That is the nice thing about being so-called immortal means that Connor can build up whomever he wants to be. For him, there is no time limit. He is free to excel in anything without feeling rushed.

“Lieutenant Anderson, this is your new partner,” Fowler introduces Connor to lieutenant Hank Anderson.

“A pleasure,” Connor sticks out his hand. Hank takes it, completing the handshake.

An electric shock zaps through Connor when Hank and him shake hands. It makes him shudder, divert his gaze just for a second. When he looks at Hank again, he has a similar expression. Something _definitely_ coursed through them. There is no doubt about it; Hank Anderson is _his_ Hank.

“I’ll let you get to it, then,” Fowler says. If he noticed Hank and Connor’s reaction to one another, he does not comment on it.

Hank does not mention the happening afterward, either. Instead, he tells Connor to sit the hell down and proceeds to bicker at a younger detective named Gavin Reed. Connor is just happy to be near Hank again, though he does find this Gavin character to be a little concerning.

He decides to tell Hank as such.

“Don’t I know it,” Hank groans, rubbing at his temples, and Connor wants nothing more than to sit the man down and give him a good shoulder rub. He can’t, though. From what he gathers, Hank never remembers anything from his past. “Come on. It’s lunchtime, and I’m starving.”

Most days, Connor joins Hank for lunch at the Chicken Feed, a shabby little food truck that serves food stacked in more calories from saturated fats than anything else. It is so different from the wartime, when Connor and Hank both lived a mediocre life with loaves of bread and hackmeat from the butcher’s. Unlike that time, Hank today is well-fed and still as ruggedly handsome as he was his previous lives.

Connor chooses not to advance on Hank too much this time. He sees that Hank has a son, Cole, and was recently divorced; Hank takes Cole on the weekends when he is not working. The heartbreak is still fresh in the man’s mind, he figures, and does not become more than a friend to Hank.

However, as fate has it, that status of friendship changes when Connor discovers that Hank’s taste for alcohol is still as strong as in the life they met at the inn.

“Hank, I believe you’ve had enough,” Connor declares on a night Hank tells him about a fight he had with his ex-spouse about Cole. They are at Jimmy’s, a bar that feels oddly familiar. He shakes the thought from his brain.

Hank sputters out a response, but it is so incoherent that Connor has him repeat the sentence. “Fuck off. I can hold my liquor just fine, Connor.”

“Not when you’re like this,” Connor says, a frown on his lips.

Taking care of the bill for the night, he hoists Hank’s arm around his shoulders and stabilizes him with his own. It is time to take Hank home, get him in bed and leave the night at that. Connor ignores the pang in his heart to comfort the man at this time.

He does not remember you; Connor must reprimand himself later. Hank does not love you right now.

With Hank’s drunken guidance, Connor drives them to a quaint, one-story home. Thankfully, the key Hank produces from his pocket matches the lock at the front door.

“Alright, let’s get you into bed, lieutenant,” Connor guides Hank down the hall, sticking his head into each room before he finds the master bedroom.

It is completely furnished in a dark mahogany, paired with blue accents, blue bed sheets… different shades of the same color.

“Blue suits you, Connor,” he hears Hank murmur drunkenly.

“Hank…”

He lays the lieutenant down onto the mattress, letting a grimace set over his face. Connor loves Hank, and hates to see him hurting like this. He wishes he could do something, anything but, to this Hank, he is nothing more than a good coworker. He would hate to overstep his boundaries and lose it all.

Hank’s eyes stare up at him blearily, a smile playing on his lips.

“You’re finally here,” he says as his arms suddenly wrap around Connor’s shoulders. “You finally found me.”

But Hank can’t remember his other lives, can he? Connor begins to fight with himself.

“Lieutenant, I think you are mistaking me for someone else,” Shrugging off Hank’s embrace, he keeps his distance, standing instead of kneeling at Hank’s bedside.

“No, no, that’s not it,” Hank blurts out. “You’re _my_ Connor...” He rests a hand over his eyes, sighing.

“Wh-what do you mean by that?” Connor does not understand.

Rolling to his side, Hank faces Connor with a somber expression.

“You never once thought that we’re fated? Destined to be with each other, even when--” Hank belches without notice. Connor’s palm flies up to the man’s mouth, cringing as the watery contents of Hank’s stomach begin to seep from in between his fingers.

“Alright, lieutenant,” Connor says, helping Hank up again. “Let’s take you to the toilet.”

Hearing Hank spew his guts into the porcelain throne is a sad sound, rough and suffering, as Connor scrubs his hands clean at the sink. Hank’s liking for alcohol is much stronger in this life, he discerns- so much so, that it might even be an addiction. Worry looms over his head. If Hank keeps drinking like this, there will be many more medical complications in the future.

When the gagging stops, Connor kneels by Hank and rubs his back comfortingly.

“Feeling better?” he asks, shutting the toilet lid and flushing it. He pulls Hank up to his feet so he can wash his mouth out.

Hank grunts his affirmation at Connor’s words, unscrewing the mouthwash bottle before putting his lips to it. The action is so sloppy, pseudo-barbaric, but Connor smiles nonetheless as Hank takes the minty solution in his mouth and swishes it around his palate. The man spits it out a minute later, watching it go down the drain.

“I’m more sober than I was a few minutes ago, I think,” Hank finally announces.

“That’s good,” Connor says.

Hank shakes his head. “I don’t know if I would say that’s ‘good’,”

After getting Hank into a change of clean clothes, Connor is about to leave before Hank stops him, unwilling to let go of his wrist.

“Hank, you need sleep,” he says. Connor does not want to push the envelope. He will not take advantage of Hank.

Hank, however, has a different mindset. “Stay the night,” he suggests.

“I couldn’t possibly-”

But Hank is quick, even when under the influence. He pulls Connor towards him, throwing him off-center and onto the bed.

“I am not asking you to stay over,” Hank says, inching forward.

Connor can feel his heart racing now, unable to resist Hank’s orbital pull. Everything starts to fly out the door when Hank’s lips descend upon his. They feel perfect, and the kiss does not gross Connor out, though he had watched Hank upchuck in the last hour. He loves this man, would do anything for him. He would die for him, if he could. If Hank wants Connor, then he Hank shall have.

Clothes are quickly discarded, thrown off the bed and scattered along the floor. Connor feels as excited as the first time he made love with Hank; whenever he is with Hank, it always feels like the first time.

Hank seems to think so, too, for he says, “This never gets old,” Traveling down the length of Connor’s body, Hank strokes the man’s tender inner thighs before taking Connor’s cock into his mouth.

“Ah!” As if Hank needed affirmation, Connor moans loudly at his administration, a hand curling into Hank’s long, overgrown hair. He pulls on it, earning a groan around his member. It feels exquisite.

Hank hollows out his cheeks, sucking Connor deep into his throat now. It’s so good, better than Connor could have imagined. Perhaps, he really is getting old- he cannot recall his last passionate time with Hank being this good. Still, he does not dwell on it, swept up in the emotion and feel of it all. He moves Hank back and forth along his dick, relishing in the much-needed warmth and friction.

“Ohh, Hank,”

Connor whimpers when the man lets up, only to nibble at the side of his cock. Hank slides his lips along the foreskin, drawing back to take the head when he earns a hiss from Connor. He kisses the tip.

Connor’s body is on autopilot.

“Let me,” he says, switching their positions so that Hank is beneath him.

Connor makes things swift; takes Hank in his palm and twists his wrist, going from root to tip of Hank’s sizable girth. It twitches in his hand, stiffening impossibly as Connor tightens his grip. He kisses Hank according to his hand’s pace, starting off smooth, then going in for more. Hank grants him access when he licks at the man’s bottom lip, parting them ever so slightly.

It is like a battle. Both Hank’s and Connor’s tongues collide with one another, ungraceful yet equally fueled with passion. They entwine, break apart, then chase after one another from one hot cavern to the other. Connor lets out a moan building in the back of his throat, loving the thrill of kissing. He hears Hank echo the same moan, with his much more gravelly and rough. Their lips become slick with saliva, squelching against one another in the most debauched way.

Hank breaks the kiss first, canting his hips so Connor lets go of his dick.

“God,” he swears. “I’m not going to last if you keep that up,” His tone is harsh and blunt, but his smiling eyes say otherwise.

Connor just grins. Why did he hold himself back, when the situation ended up being _this_? “So, what do you suggest we do instead?” He is already leaning back into the pillows.

“Come here,” Hank flips them, grabbing hold of Connor’s thighs and pushing until both knees lay at either side of Connor’s head.

Connor can feel himself blushing. “Is this what you had in mind, lieutenant?”

“It’s ‘Hank’, and you know it,” comes the snarky reply, but Connor does not get to react to it, for Hank is already spreading his cheeks, face diving in for the kill.

It is a scream that rips through the air when Hank takes a taste at Connor’s most intimate place.

“Hank!” Connor cries, muscles snapping taut. He is so wound up already, just being with Hank.

Hank licks a solid stripe along Connor’s hole, keeping him spread wide with strong thumbs. He draws circles around the rim, sucking at it softly, before dipping in and flicking his tongue in all sorts of devilish ways. Connor loves every bit of this, thrashing his head side-to-side amongst the pillows. He unconsciously clutches at the bed sheets for anchorage, but finds that he is too high up in his splendid pleasure to steady himself.

He is coming, with no one to stop him from doing so.

Like a gust of wind, Connor’s orgasm whips right through him, carrying the most beautiful colors with it. He gets caught up in them, breath taken out of him, as he dances with them in pleasure, riding the current until, finally, he comes back to his own body. Connor looks down at Hank, who is smiling from ear to ear; a reflection of Connor’s own facial expression.

“Ohh, god,” he moans for extra effect. Hank spanks him playfully, shimmying his way up along Connor’s body.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this sexy before,” Hank admits. Connor can feel the man lining up with his entrance. “You’re perfect, Connor.”

The initial breach is quite a stretch for both Connor and Hank. Connor grits his teeth, baring them slightly. It has been a while, even though he may or may not have pleasured himself countless times within the past fifty years. Consciously, he forces his body to ease up, relaxing instead of tensing automatically.

“You’re so damn tight, Connor,” Hank hisses softly. “It’s always like this. Every time we’re together,”

“Every time… we’re together?” Connor repeats, almost as if he is unsure he heard correctly.

Just then, Hank wrenches back, all the way out of Connor if not for the head of his cock, before slamming back in. It sets a brutal, hard pace that is loud and hurried and perfectly passionate. Connor digs his nails into the meat of Hank’s back, moon-shaped crescents biting the skin there.

Unchecked moans leave his throat, bubbling up and exploding across Connor’s tongue and out into the air. The friction is so hot, smoldering so deep within both Hank and Connor that it leaves them with a sense of need for each other.

The sound of skin slapping on skin pollutes the atmosphere around them, punching out a rhythm to their lovemaking. When Hank thrusts in, Connor pushes his hips back, emphasizing the movement. He gasps when Hank pulls out, then piledrives in, groaning.

Everything feels like a dream. Connor could not be more in love with Hank than right now. He stares up into Hank’s cerulean eyes, seeing how full of adoration they are. He loves this man, Hank Anderson.

“Hank!” Connor drags his nails down, leaving bright red streaks in their wake upon Hank’s skin. “I love you, Hank,”

Hank pumps his hips more, brushing against Connor’s sweet spot. “Connor,” he grunts, sweat beading on his forehead. He takes Connor in his hand, stroking him in time to his thrusts. “You’re mine.”

Doubling over, Hank comes with an animalistic growl. Connor whines when heat floods his passage, knowing that it is Hank’s essence filling him. The sensation alone is enough to throw him over the edge.

Static invades his auditory, washing out anything but his breathing, or lack thereof. Connor holds his breath, coming so intensely that his eyes cross. Ecstasy ripples through him like ocean waves. It foams at the ends of his nerves, electrifying his extremities in the best of ways.

Connor comes to, finding himself resting on Hank’s sturdy chest. Hank smells wonderful. Rolling closer, Connor captures Hank in an embrace.

“I’m yours,” Connor picks up from Hank’s words. “I’m always yours, Hank.” He has so many questions for the man, but he will not push Hank to tell him. The truth will come in due time, he thinks.

Hank holds him, coddles him in his arms. He says, “That day I met you down at the DPD, I remembered everything. I was shocked, but you didn’t make a move on me.”

“Of course not,” Connor says, “I will never do something you don’t want.”

Hank shakes his head, sighing. “I did want it, Connor. Trust me, I did.” A pause. “But I was too afraid.”

“So was I,” Connor is honest with himself this time. “I didn’t want to use you, in the case you didn’t recognize me.”

Hank laughs, but it is anything but joyful. He is serious when he talks, “I don’t want you to lose me again, Connor. I don’t know how many times I’ve died in front of you, and I can’t guarantee not to cause you more pain after this. God, I feel so bad for not remembering you-“

“Shhh,” Putting a finger to his beloved’s lips, Connor offers a little grin of compassion. “The past is the past,” he says to Hank, but mostly to himself. He does not know exactly _why_ his Creator put him on this earth, let alone give him the gift of immortality, but Connor is just happy to be in his lover’s arms once again. “Let’s plan on what we should do in the future.”

After what seems like an eternity of lying in bed and listening to Hank’s very alive breathing, the man speaks, “I suppose you’re right,” Abruptly, he reaches for the nightstand, grabbing his phone off the surface.

“What are you doing?” Connor is confused; he still has not figured out what is so fascinating about these so-called cellphones. Only when he sees Hank hold the cellular device above their resting figures does the action register faintly in his mind. “Oh, no, Hank. Really? We’re going to take a photo in _bed_? Right now?”

Hank smiles, looking at their reflected image on the phone’s display screen. “Why not? I think we look like a perfect match,”

“This is embarrassing,” admits Connor, but poses nonetheless.

“You know you like it, Connor,” Hank teases. “Now, say ‘cheese’,”

Hank snaps the first photo, then another, and another. Connor chuckles, watching the screen closely until he sees Hank turn his face. Oh.

Connor does the same, meeting Hank in the middle with a kiss.

“That might be my favorite photo yet,” Hank swipes to their captured kiss photo on his phone afterwards. “I’ll print it out for you later, so you can carry it around with you,”

“And get an erection every time I look at it?” Connor sticks his tongue out playfully. “I don’t think so.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Hank says, “But, ah, I guess there’s always time to make up for that.”

He laughs when Hank tackles him down in bed, cell phone momentarily forgotten, just like the unfortunate past they have shared together.

As long as Connor is with Hank, everything will be alright.

That much, he hopes.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos if you cried or got really sad while reading... or if you're really drunk because you took too many shots while playing the drinking game I set up in the beginning.  
> Come talk to me- @ra9sthiccbicc on twitter.


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